The Monitor. [volume] (Woodstown, N.J.) 1884-1892, 1887-12-02
rs 1T A CASE OF PLAGIARISM
Two Beautiful Poems, and the Ground
less Charge Against One of Them.

ttSS thaf ~ dAhsN OuS VI
The serious charge of plagiarism is some
times made even where there is no similar
ity of outline or plot, but only of one or
two expressions. The Christian Adgocate
lately printed under the heading of ''Sus-
picious Similarity" the two poems given
below, and commented upon the marvel
Gus" likeness of Miss Kinney's poem to the
older piece of Miss Proctor. There are
some minor points of similarity; both ''sat
alone at the organ" both were s'weary and
i'll at ease both played on ''noisy keys"
but there the parallel ends. The motives
of the two poems are entirely unlike. One
tells of high aspiration, of inability to
achieve the souls desire, through bodily
imperfection and weakness, and of the
Master who gave perfect expression to the
struggling desire. The other tells of aim
less playing, of wonderful chord struck
by chance, that clay on the fevered spirit
with touch Of infinite calm,' of the vain
search afterward for that ''lost chord d.
vine,'' and the thought that perhaps it will
be heard in heaven.
The first poem represents God supple
menting and rounding out life of earnest
purpose and only partial success; the sec
ond portrays beautifully harmonizing in
ftuence that came when chance, and not
endeavor, was the souls state--in a word,
the first poem expresses, and the other
does not express, the idea that peace is the
reward of high endeavor and striving in
this life Miss Proctor's poem is an old
favorite, and needs no words of praise.
We do not know who Miss Kinney is, but
her poem is a genuine one, and both in
motive and expression deserves admiration:
UNFINISHED MUSIC.
BY MINNIE E. KINNEY
/ sat alone at the organ,
At the close of troubled day,
When the sunsets crimson embers
On the western altar lay.
Twas weary with vain endeayor,
Ny heart was i'll at ease,
And sought TO soothe my sadness
With the voice of he sweet toned keys.
My hands were weak and trembling,
My fingers all unskilled
To render the grand old anthem
With which my soul was filled.
Through the long days cares and worries,
had dreamed of that glorious strain,
And longed to hear the organ
Repeat it to me again.
1t fell from my nntaught fingers
Discordant and incomplete,
knew not how to express it,
Or to make the discord sweet
So Il toiled with patient labor
Till the last bright CLEANS were gone
And the evenings purple shadows
Were gathering one by one.
Then Master stood beside me,
And touched the noisy keys,
And 10, the discord vanished
And melted in perfect peace.
heard the great organ pealing
My tune that l could not play,
The strains of the glorious anthem
That had filed my soul all day.
Down through the dim cathedral
The tide of music swept,
And through the shadowy arches
The lingering echoes crept;
And stood in the purple twilight.
And heard my tune again,
Not my feeble, untaught rendering,
But the Masters perfect strain.
So 1 think, perchance, the Master,
AT the close of life's weary day,
VIII take from our trembling fingers
The tune that We cannot play;
He will hear through the jarrng discord
The strain, although half expressed;
He will blend it in perfect music,
And add to it all the rest.